I worship the lines in between things,
The pulsing web that binds me,
that ties me into life.
Like one of those rope platforms
you used to see on wooden jungle gyms
in small parks surrounded by trees, it holds me up.
I worship, perhaps,
who didn’t so make the web,
as keeps it whole,
patching it where it tears
or detaches from its wood-and-metal frame.
» Originally appeared in newWitch #01
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